


Leave a Mark

by pianoforeplay



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is need. This is holding on. This is clinging and begging and taking all at once. This is claiming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Mark

The water's warm before you want it to be, the temperature far too high for your immediate needs. You turn it down a little, a few notches to the right and test it with your hand. It hurts to lean over like this, the muscles in your back and thighs whimpering a little from the strain, but you ignore it, fingers still testing until you're satisfied and you nudge the lever upward, feeling a cool sting of liquid slide over your back.

:::

 _"A little bit warmer."_

 _"Is that right or left in this country?"_

 _"Right. I think."_

 _There's a yelp that's quickly followed by a laugh. Two voices then, echoing off of ceramic and glass and swallowed up by rising humidity and giggles._

 _"Left. Sorry."_

 _Teasing glares are exchanged and the faucet is fiddled with a bit further._

 _"Warm enough now?"_

 _One leans over, all muscle and tight skin. Impossibly beautiful and glorious, flashing a smile as his hand dips in the water._

 _"Perfect."_

:::

You rise and your muscles groan again, this time partly in relief. The water falls into your hair and runs down your face, over lashes and cheeks and lips, down into the crook of your neck and over your shoulders.

All the places his fingers and tongue were just a day ago.

Your eyes open at that memory and pull out of the gentle stream, turning your body around and reaching for the shampoo.

Mango.

It's not yours.

:::

 _"You smell good."_

 _A flash of a teasing smile. "I should hope so. I just showered."_

 _"You smell... fruity."_

 _"Mango."_

 _A slightly surprised pause and then a slow, careful grin. "That's awfully feminine of you, isn't it?"_

 _"It's all I could find in the shop downstairs. Shut it."_

 _There's another pause of withheld laughter and then a smack of an ass and loose, grappling limbs colliding with the bed. Lips meet and mash together, gentle but needy. Clumsy. There are bites and nips and tongues and teeth. And then suddenly, hips and skin and a heavy breath in his ear._

 _"You don't taste how you smell."_

 _"Neither do you."_

 _"What do I smell like?"_

 _A grin. "Bad aftershave and cigarettes."_

 _A chuckle and another bite to a pouty red bottom lip and a sucking noise at its release. "All I could find in the shop downstairs."_

 _Blue eyes sparkle almost boyishly - a look you've been privy to only rarely recently - and there's a flicker of tongue on the shadow of stubble._

 _"And what do I taste like?"_

 _"Mmm..." A hand wanders and presses up against denim. "Still working on that."_

:::

It's the closest bottle to you, you decide. That's all. And you're too weary to pick up another. You know it's not only bullshit, but rather poorly constructed bullshit and carry on, lathering the orange stuff into your hair and again groaning as your shoulders and back muscles ache in this new position. You're a masochist in more than one regard, you figure.

You let your head fall back a little, the spray bouncing off your face, stinging your eyelids and nostrils, the humidity clearing sinuses you hadn't realized needed clearing. You take a deep breath and let a hand wander over your upper chest, through the thin mesh of light hair and note how it feels so different from the body you touched just hours earlier. His was so much smoother. Soft and tender with light splotches of pink before you'd gotten done with him. You never imagined he could bruise so easily.

You look down and open your eyes, blinking back droplets of water and squinting to keep out the shampoo as you brush a finger over your chest, outlining a circle of red and purple for a moment before your hand drops and you lean back into the spray again, mouth open.

The shampoo doesn't taste like mango.

:::

 _Red, swollen lips on tanned, warm skin. Backs arching, hips grinding, hard presses and loud, heavy breaths. Moans. Strangeled whimpers. A flick of a tongue and then a scrape of teeth that push the sounds louder like the volume knob on a bass guitar. A head ducks to watch him, pushing back soft, blonde strands, one hand curling and holding tight as the other brushes over pale skin, over sweat and hollow cheeks. There's another groan - not his - and then release._

 _But only for a moment as a pink tongue licks over purple-tinged flesh and hard, sharp teeth latch on yet again. Sucking. Clinging. Pulling._

 _Needing and taking._

 _And he can't stop whimpering. Not even if he tried._

:::

The water's too cold now and you turn and lean to fix it. Your muscles are slowly loosening and the ache is dulling under the warmth of the shower. You don't know how to feel about this.

You grab your washcloth and a bar of soap and go about washing away his touch. You could still feel him a few hours ago, like he was still pressed up against you, brushing your skin, kissing your shoulders. You sat alone for awhile with your eyes closed, imagining and remembering and immersing yourself in silence and ghosts. You swear you could still smell him then too. Mango and leather and sex and something else. Something not quite sweet, but certainly tangy. Something that lingered on your skin until you entered the shower ten minutes ago.

You wonder when you'll smell it again. If ever.

The washcloth wanders over your right forearm and you flinch a bit, finding a tender spot you hadn't realised. You brush some water from your eyes and bring your arm closer, examining and only seeing a very faint mark of what might eventually be a bruise. It's tender to the touch and, as far as you can tell, covers a wide area of skin. There's even a slight indent in one area. Unseen, but noticable by touch.

You're anxious for when the bruise will yellow. When it'll really be his.

:::

 _It's mid-afternoon and light streams over his face, illuminating every line and curve and hollow. His hair is matted with sweat and clings to his pale white skin, mouth open in heavy pants as his body is pushed with each thrust, sinking further into pillows and mattress with the force and the need._

 _One arm holds his body over the other, taking it all in, the other working feverishly between them as he pushes harder, needier, aching for that release just one last time. Blue eyes flash open and meet his own and he gasps almost audibly, hips crashing harder and his fist clenching the sheets next to his lover's head. And then the blue is gone, replaced by pale and flushed skin as teeth sink into his arm. He's been bitten before by him, mostly nips and hungry kisses on his chest and thighs, but nothing like this. This is need. This is holding on. This is clinging and begging and taking all at once._

 _This is claiming._

:::

The back of your head hits the side of the shower wall as you lean back, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling above you. You came as he bit you. You screamed. And he bucked into your hand.But when you looked back then, there hadn't been a mark. You were disappointed. He was always so careful to hide them and this was apparently no exception. He released before there'd be a worry. Of course he did.

Or so he thought.

You barely bother to rinse, just stepping into the water one last time and splashing a bit onto your back before nudging the faucet off with your knee. You stand there wet and sore and alone, but with a faint and bizarre sense of victory. As empty as it might be.

You take a breath and pull the curtain back, stepping out onto the rug and wetting the floor unashamedly, and it's only a moment before you see it. Lines drip in the condensation on the mirror, but it's legible none-the-less.

 __

  
_I couldn't leave. I'm sorry._   


And then everything is numb. Everything is faded and muted and still and whole. Everything makes sense again.

You open the door and see him sitting against the opposite wall. He's eating a grilled cheese and mushroom sandwich and looking up at you hopefully. His hand is shaking a little and you pretend not to notice because you think you're probably shaking too.

"You're back."

"I was hungry."

You don't know what to say and he stares at you just a moment longer.

And then finally he smiles.

And the bruises fade.

 **end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to melissa2u for the completely impromtu beta-ing, constant hand-holding and honesty. Initially posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/u2slash/233221.html) on 8/04/2004.


End file.
